Amy in Acadia Part 24

"Of course we might stay here the rest of the summer," replied Amy, "only, since we had a definite route planned out it would be a pity not to follow it."

"The other places may be very stupid," murmured Martine.

"Not Grand Pre," rejoined Priscilla. "You'll probably enjoy that far better than Annapolis; you seem to forget that it is full of memories of the expelled Acadians."

"Oh, yes, the Acadians; but do you know they don't seem half so important to me as they did when we were in Clare. I've really grown tremendously interested in those first Frenchmen, who had such an unlucky time here at Port Royal. Annapolis has memories enough for me."

"What a fickle creature you are, Martine! Surely you haven't forgotten Yvonne."

"No, no," and Martine sprang to her feet. "I'm only waiting for a letter from my father and then you shall know what is going to happen to Yvonne. Why, I've written her three times since I left Meteghan; I thought you knew that, Amy."

"Yes, but don't excite yourself unduly, child; only, when you expressed your indifference to Acadians I wondered whom you included. Nothing would make me forget little Pierre. Here's a letter that I received from him to-day."

Amy drew from her pocket a half-sheet of paper and read its contents to her friends:--

"'MY DEAR MADEMOISELLE, AMY REDMOND,--It gives me great pleasure to think that you and your beautiful mother and the charming young ladies like so well our historic Annapolis. I once it visited with my uncle, to view the fort that was built in the days of the greatness of Acadia; it was sad to me to know that now it belongs to the cruel English, who drove my ancestors from their happy homes. When I am a learned man, I shall teach history in a great school, and I will write books to make all know the truth; but now I am only a little boy, and I thank you for your letter and the book you sent me that will ever keep your lovely face fresh in my mind. So with her best duty from my mother, I subscribe myself,

"'Your humble friend, "'PIERRE ROBICHAUD.

"'P. S. Please write soon again.'"

Martine and Priscilla smiled at the quaint letter, with its curious mingling of pride and humility and its touch of French gallantry.

"Pierre seems quite sure of his own future,"--and Amy replaced the sheet in her pocket. "With his aim so firmly in view, it's quite probable that he'll attain his ambition."

"'Best duty,'" observed Priscilla, "isn't that a strange expression?"

"It certainly isn't French; he has picked it up from some of the 'cruel'

English."

"He probably had an old-fashioned school-teacher at some time. I hope that we'll see both Pierre and Yvonne before we return home; but now we must keep our minds on Annapolis. I'm so afraid that you haven't got all you might of its history."

"Oh, my dear Amy, Priscilla is just brimful of the Loyalists and their sufferings; you ought to hear some of the stories that she has gathered up. Show her your note-book, Priscilla."

Priscilla reddened and shook her head, while Martine continued:

"And as for me, I'm so charged with historical a.s.sociations that I feel as if I'd give them out in electric sparks if any one should rub me the right way. Of course I know that this is not the original French fort, but when one is dreaming, she needn't be so very particular about facts; so if I shut my eyes, here on this very spot," and Martine suited the action to the word, "I can see Poutrincourt and Lescarbot and all the others who were here that long winter when De Monts had gone back to France, leaving Pontgrave in charge. I just imagine that the old barracks over there is the great hall where they used to have their feasts, and I can see them all marching in with the fifteen gentlemen at the head who sat at Poutrincourt's table, the Grand Master strutting in front, with his staff of office in his hand and his napkin over his shoulder. L'Ordre de Bon Temps--that was a capital idea of Lescarbot's, to keep them all in good spirits and make each man think himself of supreme importance for a day."

"Tell me about it," said Priscilla. "If I ever knew, I believe I've forgotten what it was."

"That's it, my dear; you have been so very full of the much less important English history of Annapolis that you've overlooked the more romantic French." Then pointing toward the Basin, Martine chanted:

"'Sing on, wild sea, your sad refrain, For all the gallant sons of France Whose songs and sufferings enhance The romance of the western main.'"

"Well, if this is a wild sea I wonder what you'd call the Bay of Fundy,"

said Amy, laughing.

"Oh, dear! You are so very practical; but I can't argue with you now, for I must make Priscilla understand just what 'The Order of the Good Time' was. During the long winter Lescarbot suggested that each of the fifteen gentlemen of greatest importance in the settlement should be appointed caterer for a day at a time; so they took turns, and each one tried to outdo the others in providing as many delicacies as possible.

The steward of the day was called the Grand Master, and fish and game were so abundant here that often the table was supplied with food that the King of France might have envied. In order to keep up their dignity, they all observed a very formal ceremony, entering the hall at each meal just as I told you a little while ago. At the close of the day, after grace, the Grand Master removed his collar and placed it on the neck of the one who was to do duty the next day, while they drank each other's health in wine and recited appropriate verses. No wonder the Indians thought it great sport to watch the white men dine, for they crowded the hall at every meal, and Membertou, their Chief, was often at the Governor's table."

"I hope the other Indians had something to eat."

"Oh, yes indeed; they were always well fed by the French, and well treated; so that from the very beginning the French and Indians were on the very friendliest terms."

"You must have done a deal of reading, Martine, you know your subject so well," said Amy, quizzically.

"Oh, I haven't read so much," she began.

"No, it's all Balfour Airton," interposed Priscilla. "He talks like a book, and he's discovered that he can make Martine listen to him."

"Any one would like to listen to him," rejoined Martine, "and I'm glad to say that though he is of English descent, he doesn't consider the English absolutely perfect."

"There, there," said Amy, throwing oil on the waters, "our acquaintance with the Airtons has certainly added to the pleasure of us all. Balfour seems a plucky fellow, for it can't be particularly pleasant to him to serve as a grocer's clerk in the summer holidays."

"But he needs the money."

"Oh, yes, Martine; but I know boys who would remain idle rather than do work that they thought a little beneath them."

"To tell you the truth," added Priscilla, "I'm afraid that the Airtons have very little money indeed. Eunice says that there's a mortgage on their house, and that they may have to give it up before long. Balfour has offered to stay out of college and look for work in Halifax, but his mother will not listen to this; she wishes him to be a lawyer like his grandfather."

"He has a scholarship at college, and he earns more or less money all the year, so that really his education costs his family nothing."

"I fear our conversation is too personal," interrupted Amy, "though it has certainly been a pleasure to meet two people so free from self-consciousness as Eunice and Balfour. That reminds me," concluded Amy, "that I had a letter to-day from my friend Brenda, Mrs. Weston. She is surprised that we find so much to interest us in Nova Scotia. She made a trip this way one summer with her parents, but they travelled rather hurriedly through the province and made their longest stay at Halifax."

"Oh, Halifax," interrupted Martine. "Nothing but English; only fancy,"

with a true English accent, and she raised her hand toward her eye as if holding a monocle. "If there's anything in the world I dislike, it's the real English. Excuse me, Priscilla; I did not mean to hurt your feelings."

"My feelings? Why, I'm no more English than you are, Martine. You won't deny that you have some English blood in your veins?"

"Unluckily, I can't deny it; but I'm glad that they named me Martine; that at least is un-English."

"It certainly is a queer name."

"Not queer at all, Priscilla. My grandfather was Martin, and Martine is the French feminine for it. If I'd been a boy, I would have been named Martin. Unluckily I wasn't, and so Martine was the best that could be done. My elder brother had been named for my father; Lucian, you know, is his name. I never heard any one else call 'Martine' a queer name;"

and the Chicago girl turned away petulantly.

Noting again the signs of a coming storm, already too frequent on this trip, Amy hastened to change the subject.

"I don't know why I should have so many letters in my pocket to-day, but since I brought my mail with me, let me read you a little from Brenda's letter; you know her, Priscilla?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Oh, Brenda,--Mrs. Weston," cried Martine, eagerly, all trace of annoyance disappearing from her face and voice. "I've never talked with her, but I've seen her several times; I think she's just fine. She isn't a bit prim and stiff like most Bostonians. Why, she has as much style as a Chicago girl."

"My dear," interposed Amy, "remember that Priscilla and I are from the neighborhood of Boston."

"Oh, yes, but you don't set up for style--there, I don't mean that, of course; I only mean--"